Nightmare On Repeat
by Alex Kade
Summary: OW: The present and past collide in a very negative way for one of the seven.  Can his friends help him ride out the storms?


**A/N: **Last one of my massive story uploads! *phew* Next time I'll be more diligent about getting things up here as I finish them!

Anyway, so this one hit me in the middle of a rather bad storm up here in WA, which reminded me a little of my lifetime spent growing up on the coast of VA where we braved hurricanes at least twice a year. The flashback details were taken from factual documentation of the disaster described, as well as from my own personal experiences (though none of our storms were nearly as traumatic!). This is a back and forth story, comparing the present and the past for my favorite boy to torture, and I managed to do it without physically whumping on him! So proud. :_)

* * *

><p>Ezra looked out at the darkening sky and shuddered, his normally calm demeanor shattered into a million tiny, jagged pieces that tore at his measure of self-worth. He had thought he was over this childish fear, but at the first sign of high winds howling their way through the streets and alleys of Four Corners, whistling impishly through the small gaps between wooden boards, the Southerner felt the old, familiar terror begin to sink its serrated claws into his chest. It wasn't the thunder crashing or the blinding lightening that had him wanting nothing more than to dive for cover – he was a grown man, after all. Simple rainstorms never stirred up the familiar demons of his past. The wind, however, in all its seeming innocence, was what crept into the gambler's steady control, twisting it and tossing it aside with the ease in which it could render a strong household into a mere pile of splintered wood and ravished dreams.<p>

"Ezra, get up, we need ya!" Vin's voice hollered from outside the door.

Standish sighed as he tried to fight back his rising tension, and loosed a nervous chuckle as he reached for the door. As expected, the tracker was more than a little shocked to see that Ezra was already dressed and ready for the day.

"Lead the way," Ezra said with a smirk, hoping he wasn't putting too much cheer into his tone to make the observant sharpshooter suspicious of the inner turmoil that was raging as hard as the storm was outside.

As they moved down the stairs, Vin explained what needed to be done. With the wind picking up and the weather looking like it wasn't going to clear anytime soon, the townsfolk were doing what they could to reinforce their homes and businesses. Windows were being boarded up, support beams were being further stabilized, supplies were being carted down to root cellars, and flighty animals were being seen to. The peacekeepers had spread themselves out lending aid where they were needed the most, and Vin was in the process of assigning the Southerner to the task of helping Nathan do what he could to ready the clinic and gather whatever extra medical supplies might be needed.

Ezra balked.

"The clinic is upstairs," he stammered, unable to quite bite back the slightly panicked tone.

Tanner either didn't hear it over the wind, or didn't care to notice. "I know, Ezra, that's why Nate needs help makin' sure it'll hold against the wind as much as possible. Josiah and him are puttin' more supports under the stairs, so they'll need you to do the runnin' around. Don't even have to get your hands dirty."

Ezra's breath caught in his throat as a rush of wind blew the saloon doors open, slamming them against the walls. "Running around? In this?" he questioned.

"Won't take long," Vin tried to assure him. "Ya just gotta gather up anything for bandages and get some more alcohol and stuff over there. Nathan thinks people'll probably be gettin' hurt tryin' to fight against this storm."

"But what about here?" Ezra asked, trying for a different tactic. "Someone needs to stay and board up the saloon, and since this is my chosen place of residence, I'd gladly volunteer-"

"He's outta laudanum." At Standish's groan, Vin slapped him on the back, knowing the conman understood the situation. "Don't worry, I'll take care of things here. All your stuff'll be safe."

"Don't be so sure," the gambler mumbled, pressing his hat down as he braced himself to step out into his nightmare.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

It was supposed to be a relaxing vacation, a nice little reward from his mother for having performed exceptionally well during their last con. This time there were no strict uncles, no snooty aunts, no bullying cousins – Ezra was twelve years old, after all. He could go one quiet week on an island resort without parental supervision. Of course, none of the hotel staff would know that the young man had already spent a good portion of his life taking care of himself, but it wasn't necessary information. Even on vacation, he was always deep in the life of a con artist; little Ezra would play at being the naïve, excited, somewhat nervous boy that was both eager and afraid to be on his own for the first time, allowing the generous island workers to watch over him and tend to his needs without being overbearing. Basically, this con was allowing him to act like any other normal boy, so he was glad to slip into the role.

By the time Ezra left the island, he found that playing the part of a scared little boy that sought his mother's presence was not so far outside the truth.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

"Nathan!" Ezra hollered above the sound of the driving rain.

The healer looked over his shoulder as he held a plank in place for Josiah, frowning as he caught a shiver run through the Southerner's frame. The man hadn't been outside very long, and it was a summer storm. He shouldn't be cold…

"What do you need besides the laudanum?" Standish continued, dropping his usual manner of speech in favor of holding a fast, easily understandable conversation. He knew Nathan was noticing the tremors that had begun wracking his body, but Ezra was powerless to stop them.

"You all right?" the healer couldn't help but ask.

Ezra rolled his eyes. "I will be when I can get out of this blasted rain! Supplies, Nathan!"

Not wanting to delay any longer than the Southerner did, Nathan listed out several things that needed to be picked up around town. Most of them could be found easily, but the laudanum was the most important item, and the most difficult to attain. The only person in town that carried a ready supply of the liquid pain relief was a one Mr. Edgars, another veteran of the war that had become lost to the powerfully addictive nature of the drug. People had tried to break him of the habit before, but Edgars was a solid addict and didn't seem to want to be anything but. Eventually folks gave up, realizing that as long as he was left in peace he stayed on his little farm and didn't cause any undue trouble. The man was no older than Chris and doomed to die young, but that was his choice to make and he'd fight anyone that told him otherwise.

Or that tried to take his laudanum.

Smooth talker that he was, Ezra had managed to get a bottle out of the man once when Nathan was in desperate need. Much like this time, his shipment hadn't made it in on time before someone was injured. Back then, it was because the coach had busted two wheels, and it took a few days to get the delivery back on track. Now, it was simply because no one was willing to travel when the storm had first revealed itself on the horizon. Ezra couldn't blame them.

Of course, that now meant it was up to the conman to traverse the weather himself, to do exactly what he was good at – persuading folks to give him what he wanted. It was at times like these that he cursed his so-called "god given talents," and his mother for honing his skills. If he wasn't so damn good at his job he'd probably be back in the saloon hammering boards to his window.

"Ezra, you better go if you're gonna make it back before this gets bad!" the healer hollered, bringing the gambler back to himself. Ezra didn't even realize that he had somehow managed to inch his way back up against the wall, sheltering himself beneath the first landing of the stairway. He smiled sheepishly at the healer.

"It's already bad!" he replied, then took a deep breath before dashing back out into his past.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Isle Dernière had been paradise for the first few days. The sun was out, it was wonderfully warm, the beach was full of smiling vacationers, the food was fantastic, and Ezra managed to find several children his age to run with. If not for the events that followed, his trip to the little resort island off the Louisiana coast would probably have topped the list of his fondest memories. As it stood, that one experience would be an infinite shadow at the back of his consciousness, ready to grow and swallow rational thought at the first sign of a recurring tragedy.

Four hundred people. There had been four hundred happy, laughing, boisterous, _alive _individuals on that island before it happened. Ezra had been one of the approximately two hundred "lucky" survivors to walk away. It was fifty/fifty odds and he had picked the right side of the coin, but none of those who gambled with him and crawled out alive could claim to be unscathed.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

"It's just outside of town," Ezra reminded himself, trying to steady his frazzled nerves.

Edgars' was the closest farm property to town limits, his cabin merely a twenty-minute ride away, ten if one were to push their horse to a run. As much as Ezra longed to race Chaucer in time with his frantically beating heart, he would not risk injury to his four-legged friend. His fear would not control him to the point of causing harm to someone else, human or animal.

Or so he kept telling himself.

The cabin appeared before him, and he nearly cried in joy at the sight of it. The twenty minutes in the growing winds and drenching warm rain had felt like hours to him, and at this point he wasn't certain how much of the dampness on his shirt was from water seeping through his outer layers, or his sweat seeping up from beneath.

Ezra pulled Chaucer as close to the porch overhang as possible and quickly dismounted, his feet barely touching the wood as he flew up the steps. Another great gust of wind nearly blew him off his feet, bringing his panic to a new level which caused him to pound furiously at the door. It was all he could do not to scream out Edgars' name in desperation.

"Hell, Standish, where's the fire? Can't be one out in _this_ rain," Edgars grumbled as he opened the door, stepping back just in time to avoid being run over by the Southerner. "Well, come on in, I guess."

Bowing his head and taking a few gulping breaths, Ezra had to work impossibly hard at reining in his emotions. He had no hope of finding his masks in this situation, he knew that much, but he needed to stay in control long enough to get what he came for. It was a simple task, one he should be able to accomplish with swift ease, and then he could be back on his way out…out into that storm…

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

They should've known early that something was amiss, but everyone ignored the warning signs. Ezra had been splashing in the surf when he, along with several other beach patrons, thought they heard a distant roar out in the vast gulf. The animals that lived on the island, both wild and domestic, were becoming restless, and the slightest of winds had picked up. A storm was brewing, everyone knew, but none were willing to give up their early August weather just yet.

The next morning what had started as a gentle breeze began to pick up rapidly, and with the darkening of the sky the beach goers were all packing up and heading for the shelter of their homes or the hotel. Never one to relish getting caught out in the rain, Ezra meandered back to his room and curled up on the bed, losing himself in a book for a time. The rattling of his window some hours later made him jump, and he cautiously moved towards it to chance a look at the storm that had come upon them. His view looked out on the sea and he was startled by how wild the waves had become. There were some curious vacationers standing outside watching, mesmerized by the violence in the once peaceful waters. Ezra thought they were fools, surely about to catch their deaths standing out in the pouring rain like that. If only he knew how right he was.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

"Whoa there, Standish!" Edgars exclaimed, gripping the gambler by the arm to keep him from falling to the ground. It seemed the man was having some difficulty breathing, and Edgars didn't have the faintest idea what to do for that. Not knowing how else to handle the situation, he resorted to the one thing that never failed him: his laudanum. "Here, friend, take some of this."

Ezra was barely aware of his surroundings, his vision going slightly black until he felt the smooth glass of a bottle touching his lips. The sickly sweet smell of the thick drug snapped him back to reality, and he shoved it away.

"No!" he gasped, then leaned his hands on his knees. A chair appeared behind him, and he graciously sat back into it. Somewhere in his fear-fogged brain the conman managed to peek through, and he nearly laughed at the simplicity of the situation he found himself in. He made a mental note to use this weakness of his to his advantage the next time he needed to come to Edgars. After all, his mother did teach him to look for the potential gains hidden in every situation.

"Sorry, sorry," Standish muttered once he could find his voice. He wouldn't even have to work at this one. It was too easy. He reached out his hand for the brown bottle that Edgars still held.

"Thought you didn't want it," the man stated, confused and concerned for the lawman.

"No, I do. You just startled me, is all." The conman turned pleading eyes up at the addict and appealed to the man, veteran to veteran. It was an underhanded trick, he knew, but he didn't have time to play nice. If he didn't get out soon he wouldn't be able to find the courage to leave. "Please, Edgars, these storms…the thunder…I was heavy artillery…You do understand, don't you?"

Edgars' eyes flashed back to another time and he nodded absently. His gaze shifted to the bottle in his hand. "Didn't take you for a man like me," he nearly whispered.

"It's just on days like this, just when it's really bad." Ezra's voice shook when he spoke. "Normally Nathan…he helps me, but just a little. The shipment didn't come, though. He has nothing."

Lies mixed with truth, that was always the key. Edgars saw the fear dwelling in the gambler, recognized it as the same terror that had plagued his mind since the war. Taking pity on the man, he handed over the bottle, then went to his back cupboard and pulled out another. Ezra tried to wave the second offer away, but Edgars wouldn't have it.

"Hang onto it for next time things get rough," the man insisted. "But don't take too much, you hear me? You're a smart man, don't do this to yourself. Don't wind up like me."

Ezra couldn't help but feel a little guilty for tricking Edgars, and was almost tempted to call the bluff, but he knew the man. The ex-soldier would be kind enough to help a fellow Reb in a similar situation, but he wouldn't extend the kindness to the entire town. He wouldn't extend the offer to Nathan, in particular. Last time Ezra won the prize, it had taken over an hour of persuasion and trading for valuable items that the gambler hadn't told his fellow peacekeepers about.

There wasn't time for that, now. Ezra had his prize – two prizes – and needed to leave. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes through the memories were all he had to get through, then he could be safe. Somehow finding the will to leave, he stood on shaky legs and shook Edgars' hand.

"You be careful out there," the farmer called out as Ezra mounted up. "Get down in a cellar as soon as you get back to town. I get the feeling this one's gonna blow some folks away, and I'd hate to see you be one of 'em."

Ezra stiffened in the saddle and gave serious thought to downing some of the numbing liquid he now carried.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

From his second floor window, Ezra watched with growing anticipation as the waters became more violent. He heard the adults out in the hall wondering where the _Star _was, the little charter boat that could take them safely back to dry land. Ezra looked back out at the raging sea and decided the ship probably didn't make it. No, anyone on the island was stuck there to sink or swim, and he realized how literal the statement was when the beach suddenly disappeared. The wave rapidly rose up to swallow the land beneath the hotel, washing man and animal out to sea. Buildings fell under the onrush, and as the wave slammed against the side of the hotel, Ezra barely had time to register the fact that his safe haven, too, would not be able to withstand the force of nature. With a horrid crack, followed by several ear-splitting screams from women and children, the floor began to shift beneath his feet. In the blink of an eye, the child weighed his options and deemed the chances of survival in the confines of a crumbling building were not good. He barely had time to throw open the window and leap out into the swirling, foaming waters before the hotel was reduced to nothing but driftwood. It didn't matter anymore – not the other children, not the lovely hostess that gave him bits of chocolate, not the dog that barked below his window until he tossed it scraps of food. The only thing that mattered was finding something, anything, he could hang onto so he could ride out the storm.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

A white-knuckled hand gripped the saddle horn while the other kept up a steady rhythm of stroking the horse's neck. Right now, the feel of his companion below him was the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him sane enough to just get home. He could see the buildings rise up in front of him, and he was glad the rain would cover his tears of relief. Still mindful of the danger to his horse, he urged Chaucer to move just a little faster, an order with which the spoiled animal gladly complied.

Then Ezra heard it.

An all-too familiar roar echoing in the distance. The wind picked up even more, pelting sand into his exposed flesh and sending bits of debris flying across his path. Panic from the rider was felt by the horse, and fear of twisting a leg in a mud slick was overridden by fear of the sound of certain death. Ezra had escaped it once before, he'd called heads when the coin came up tails, but could he do it again? He wouldn't risk it, not again.

As he sped recklessly into town, he missed the first concerned voice calling out to him from the safety of the church. A second voice reached out, but he gave it no heed. He pulled Chaucer up short in the center of town, his eyes wide, frantically searching for the best place to hide that would save him from the oncoming wave. And what of his horse? Could Chaucer stay afloat long enough for rescue? No, no, he'd have to take his friend with him.

"Ezra! Ezra!" a stern voice shouted up to him, breaking him from his total panic.

"It's coming," the gambler warned, his voice bordering on shrill.

Chris furled his brows at the sight of Standish, who was normally the calmest of his men, essentially having a breakdown right in front of him. He took a tentative step forward and gripped the reins on the dancing horse. "I know, Ezra, that's why you need to come inside. We gotta get to the cellar before it hits."

The Southerner snapped his head around, shaking it violently at the gunslinger's suggestions. "Underground? No! We'll drown, we'll all drown!"

The roaring increased and Chris realized by Standish's ridiculous proclamation that there would be no convincing him. Ezra was clearly lost somewhere in some other time, somewhere that involved a heavy storm and more water than the desert ever hoped to have.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Ezra was born a swimmer, but even the world's best would've struggled against the currents and waves that pulled the small boy in varying directions. He had just managed to grab hold of a large chunk of wood most likely from the very hotel he had escaped, and was clinging to it with a death grip that, fueled by adrenaline and the simple will to survive, would've impressed the strongest of men.

The wind ripped through the skies above his head, tossing trees, broken pieces of machinery, odd articles of clothing, and countless other unrecognizable objects around. With the sounds of the merciless rain, the violent winds, and the crashing waters all mixed together, Ezra wasn't sure if he'd ever hear anything else again above the constant roaring drone that whispered "death" with each passing second.

A dark shape loomed up in the water ahead of him, and the boy's terror rose to a new level as he recognized the shape of a struggling bull. The poor creature was doing its best to find some shore to swim to, not realizing the futility of its task. Instinct drove it to keep moving, putting it right in the path of Ezra's little piece of driftwood. If they collided, the large animal would no doubt push the child under, effectively ending Ezra's own fight to survive.

Letting go of the board with one hand, Ezra tried valiantly to paddle himself away from the impending disaster, but he couldn't work against the swirling vengeance of the sea any more than the bull could. Fully believing those would be his last few minutes on Earth, the child closed his eyes but never gave up trying to pull himself out of the line of certain death.

The board was jolted to the side and Ezra cried out, knowing he had lost his battle. It took a moment for his mind to register that he was not being crushed by the full weight of a panicking bull, but rather was being pulled along by his waist. He chanced opening his eyes to see a man holding him tight with one arm, the other gripping a rope that was tied around the savior's chest.

"Just hold on, son, I've got you," the man spoke into his ear.

His mother be damned. Twelve-year-old Ezra buried his face into the shoulder of the man's waterlogged shirt and sobbed uncontrollably.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Ezra was _not _getting off his horse. With the man frozen in the saddle and the approaching threat looming in the distance, Chris ground his teeth together and yanked on Chaucer's reins, running them across the street to the livery. A large board was resting in place in front of the doors, not secured down by nails just yet because no one wanted to be the one to explain to Ezra why he would have to be the only one unable to get his beloved horse to safety, especially since the only reason he had to remove the animal from shelter was to go on a mercy mission for the town. Of course, now that they faced a tornado instead of just a violent summer storm, the livery couldn't dream of keeping its occupants safe should the twister choose that building as a target.

The board was large and heavy, and Chris struggled to lift it from its cradles while still keeping one hand clenched within the leather straps of Chaucer's reins. If the horse bolted, Standish would go with it, and by the looks of him the gambler would just keep letting that horse ride them both to their demise.

The weight on the gunslinger's hands lessened unexpectedly, and he turned his head to see Tanner and Josiah on either end of the plank. Looking over his shoulder, he shook his head as he noticed Nathan trying to softly talk sense into the frazzled gambler; and a disbelieving smile touched his lips as he spotted JD and Buck rushing up the street towards them. As one, they shoved the doors open and piled inside the building, knowing its seeming sturdiness would not hold up against the threat that loomed just outside of town. Too late to take care of the horse and get back to the cellars, they pulled the board in with them, Josiah, Buck, and JD setting to the task of securing it to the door along with whatever else they could find inside the barn. Chris, Nathan, and Vin went to work on trying to coax their fear-gripped brother from the saddle. No one put much thought into the fact that all of them just willingly put their lives at risk for one. If Ezra was going to go out in the wake of a tornado, they'd all just have to go with him.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Ezra sat huddled at the front of the _Star _along with the other survivors that the Captain had managed to pull from the waters. The ship had somehow gone off course and was grounded on the sands of the beach that used to lay beneath the devastating flood. Looking around, Ezra estimated there to be about forty other people taking refuge on the boat not counting the crew, who were busying themselves just trying to make sure their shelter stayed together long enough to get the survivors through the storm.

A sudden silence filled the air, and after becoming accustomed to the impressive volume of nature warring with itself, Ezra found the quiet to be nearly deafening. Curious, he stood and made his way to where one of the windows had been smashed out of its frame, and peered out at the eerily calm skies. The waves had just begun to settle from their tormented fight, pieces of cloth snagged in treetops that had been whipping violently in the wind now hung lifelessly, the rain that blanketed the colors of the setting sun to a heavy gray now parted to shed the fading daylight on what was left of the island. Everything was still, calm, almost peaceful.

A calloused hand rested on the boy's shoulder, and he gazed up to search the worried face of Captain Abe Smith. The man kept his focus out at the sky, a frown marring his features.

"Is it over?" Ezra tentatively asked.

Smith shook his head wearily. "I'm afraid not, son. See those clouds up there?"

Ezra looked up and noticed that the edges of the pink-tinted clouds seemed to form an arc around the clearing of the darkening blue sky. The remaining hues of the sunset reflected off the curving heralds of the storm, layered one behind the other, and Ezra's imagination followed the shape of the clouds to form a large ringed circle hovering above them. In the utter stillness of the moment, he couldn't quite help but think that in an odd way, the picture in the sky above him was strangely beautiful.

"We're in the belly of the beast, boy," the Captain sighed, "and we still got a ways to go before we're out."

With a slow nod, Ezra continued to stand and enjoy the sight of the clear sky for as long as he could, his anticipation growing as the quiet ring slid its way across the heavens, dragging the dark clouds behind it.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Seven men sat in a tight circle beneath the stairs that led up to the loft, allowing themselves the illusion of security against the monster outside. With the ever-increasing rumble that marked the nearing passage of the merciless vortex, their seventh member became more withdrawn into himself, more quiet, more detached from the comforting hands and soothing voices.

JD had gotten Chaucer settled down in his stall after it took nearly all of the seven to forcefully drag Standish off the animal's back. He had put up a struggle, pleading with them, warning them about some oncoming tidal wave that would never come. They tried to tell him that it was impossible, that the sea was miles and miles away, and somehow something must have gotten through because he seemed to relax a little bit in their grasp. When the wind picked up even harder and the building shook, it sent the Southerner into a panic all over again. He then shouted that the whole thing was going to come down on them, that they'd be crushed if they didn't get out. Unfortunately, no one could honestly refute the man on that point. Whatever nightmare Standish was reliving could very well repeat itself in that regard.

Nathan hovered over the Southerner, constantly checking his breathing. There were a few moments when the healer was certain that Ezra would pass out, and guiltily wished that he would. At least unconscious, his adrenaline rush could have a chance to subside a bit, allowing his heart to stop trying to pound its way out of his chest. At the moment, Standish sat with his back against the wall, knees curled up loosely in front of him, his head hanging down as he stared unseeingly at the ground between his feet, his breaths coming in too fast and too shallow. Nathan cursed himself for sending the man out into the storm, out into his past, wishing he had known about Ezra's paralyzing fear. Did storms normally have an effect on the Southerner like this? Had he somehow missed all the signs of shell shock that several veterans of war often portrayed, or was the conman just that good at hiding them? Or was this something entirely new?

Vin's thoughts mirrored the healer's as he tried to bring his terror-stricken friend back to them. The sharpshooter was also cursing himself, knowing he had ignored Ezra's odd behaviors that morning, wondering how he had so clearly missed the obvious signs of distress. Tanner was horribly claustrophobic, had fought this very same battle many times throughout his life, so why didn't he recognize the fear in someone else? Why didn't Ezra just tell them this would happen? No one belittled Vin for his inability to function in tight spaces if there was no means of escape; they wouldn't embarrass Standish for a fear of storms. Hell, the man had been heavy artillery in the War. He had constantly been surrounded by the thunderous booms of cannon fire. It would make sense that he'd suffer from the similar sounds that nature could mimic. Then again, it didn't seem Standish jumped at the thunderclaps or the lightening. No, it was the wind that was making him tense, the wind and the endless rain.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

The back side of the storm was even worse than the first, and Ezra had crawled through the group of survivors to put himself in the corner of the room, to surround himself within the protection of strangers. The boat rocked and groaned, tipping and swaying under the onslaught of the wind that beat against it with almost murderous intent. He placed his hands over his ears and bit back a scream as something large crashed into the end of the ship, pivoting it around slightly. The new angle allowed debris to fly more easily through the broken windows, occasionally sending sharp branches into the soft flesh of whoever was closest. Scratches and bruises were the extent of the physical damage, but fear drove the mass of people to scramble further back from the windows. Adult bodies were now nearly crushing the boy against the wall, but at the time he took comfort in it. A solid shield of human beings kept the storm from reaching him a second time, kept him from being swept back out to dark waters. The weight against his small body that was cutting short his ability to take a full breath didn't bother him in the slightest, and when lack of oxygen finally sent him into blissful sleep, he welcomed it. He was tired of being afraid, tired of the endless noise, tired of being cold and wet, tired of thoughts of all the lives lost filtering through his terror, and tired of just being tired.

Closing his eyes, the child slumped down to his side on the floor and let it all just slip away.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

No one spoke as the twister found its way to the far end of town, the attempt hopeless as the sound of a human voice could not ever hope to find its way to straining ears over the noise of sheer destruction. They couldn't tell if the spiraling demon was ripping someone's home in two, or if it was just waving a hello as it made its way past. There was no way of knowing whether it was still coming or if it was going, if it had hopped over them with ease, or if it was bearing down on them with evil intent. The walls shook endlessly, the horses danced around with no way to flee the danger, objects pummeled the side of the building, threatening to tear right through the seemingly fragile wood. The shingles on the roof rattled, several of them tearing away to be swallowed up by the hungry traveling devil. The hole created above did little to shed light within, merely allowing for smaller objects to be sucked up through the space and lost forever, and creating a gap for the rainwater to pour down onto the dry dirt floor.

Chris saw the water pooling and spreading through the loose pieces of hay, taking a glance at Ezra to see if the man noticed. The glassy sheen that covered the green eyes told the gunslinger otherwise, and he found that he was both grateful and incredibly frightened by that fact. The Southerner had been in a full panic when he rode into town, but now, right in the middle of the worst of the tornado, he was as quiet and still as the void would be in the heart of the passing storm. Chris couldn't help but wonder if they had somehow lost the man to the storm, anyway, without even knowing the reason for it.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Three long days passed on the island, the people morose and exhausted, not to mention hungry. The floodwaters died down as the weather calmed, leaving land buried with debris and remains of the dead, human and animal. Fallen houses were picked through in search of anything that could be used to help their survival, and any of the living were rounded up to form a tiny colony of somber individuals. Ezra stuck close by the Captain when he could, staying mostly quiet and out of the way of the man's endeavors to keep the remaining people alive, dolling out orders to find supplies and tend to the wounded. The one time the boy had been sent through a crawlspace beneath a farmhouse in search of food, he had come across the bloated bodies of a family of three, the child being one of the locals Ezra had played with. Smith had hauled the screaming boy out and yelled at the men who had sent him down into the makeshift tomb, promising Ezra it wouldn't happen again. The damage had already been done. Ezra didn't say another word for the rest of his stay with the Captain, didn't make a sound as the rescue crews loaded him up on a ship bound for home, and remained quiet until his mother came for him weeks later. Upon seeing her face, he snapped out of his near catatonic state and rushed into her embrace, bawling like a three-year-old as he stumbled over the words to tell her all that had happened. For once, she allowed her son to cry, stroking his hair with her slender fingers and telling him everything was going to be all right.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

"It's over, son, you're safe," Josiah nearly whispered, his smooth baritone voice creating a calming effect on everyone present.

With the passing of the twister, so passed the intensity of the summer storm. The wind outside had slowed to a light breeze, and the rain had died down to a trickling drizzle. The now gaping hole in half the roof left everyone on edge, an inarguable sign of how close they had come to succumbing to the twister's power.

"JD, check on the horses," Chris ordered, running a shaky hand through his hair. As much as he knew they all wanted to stay with their alarmingly silent friend, there were things that would need to be done in town, and it was up to him to take charge. He stood up, leaving the Southerner in the hands of the gentle preacher for a time. "Buck, Vin, help me get these doors open, then I need the rest of you to start checking for anyone that might be hurt. I'll take care of Ezra."

"But, Chris," Nathan started to argue.

The gunslinger whirled on him. "Nathan, as far as I can tell, he ain't hurt. If your clinic's still standing, get it ready for people that need it, and take that damn laudanum with you."

The healer bowed his head. "Shouldn't have sent him out there after it in the first place."

A very soft Southern drawl cut through the argument. "People will need it."

All activity stopped as eyes turned to the pale, trembling man. Chris hunkered back down in front of him, noting that Ezra never tried to move away from the preacher's arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"What happened, Ezra?" the gunslinger asked, not certain whether the private man would answer.

Standish shut his eyes and shook his head, muttering out, "I'm sorry. Normally I have better control. The wind, the noise, I couldn't…"

Vin squatted down next to Chris and placed a hand on Ezra's knee. "It's all right, Ez, we understand. Why don't you let us get you on outta here, then maybe we can talk about it later."

With a slow nod, the Southerner allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet and led towards the door. Once open, everyone stared at the clear path the tornado had cut through town. Like the livery, rooftops were shorn off of buildings all over, balconies were laying down in the mud, crushing whatever had been beneath them, no carriage had any hope of navigating the debris field that littered the streets, the saddle shop was torn neatly in half, exposing the wind-wrought destruction of the goods that lay in a tangled heap within, and the only thing left of the hotel was a pile of wood and twisted furniture.

At seeing the open air where the hotel used to stand, Ezra's knees buckled below him. Josiah shifted his hold to account for the added weight, nodding to Chris as the gunslinger took up the gambler's other arm. They'd get Standish up to his room and settled, then get to work on rebuilding their town.

_**~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~M7~**_

Two weeks later, the seven men sat in amicable silence around their usual table. The days immediately following the tornado had been exhausting for everyone. Farm animals had to be tracked down all over the territory, wood needed to be cut and hauled in to begin the process of getting the buildings back in order, the roadway and alleys took half the townsfolk to get cleared, the church was transformed into a makeshift hospital for the many injured, and those who had lost their homes were welcomed in by kindly neighbors. During that time, the others watched over Ezra with concern, waiting for him to give them just that little flash of a pained look that told them that whatever activity he had been assigned to was taking its toll, bringing back the familiar grip of whatever horrifying memory had been reawakened with the storm. No one accused him of not pulling his weight, no one tried to pry into his personal business, praise was given for what he could manage and for having braved his fears to achieve the much-needed painkiller, and slowly but surely, their wily gambler had begun to come back into himself.

"Last Island," the Southerner abruptly blurted out once everyone was done with their meals. They stared at him in confusion for a second before he sucked in a deep breath and tried again. "Isle Dernière, otherwise known as the Last Island Resort, I was there."

Josiah blinked in surprise. "That was nearly two decades ago. You had to have been-"

"Twelve," Ezra confirmed. "I was twelve years old…"

"Shit," Buck breathed, "no wonder you don't do so hot in big storms."

Sorrow filled Nathan's eyes. "Ezra, I'm so sorry. If I'd known-"

Ezra cut him off. "You didn't know because I didn't tell you. It's my own fault. I thought I could handle it. Because of my foolishness I placed you all in jeopardy, and I wanted to both apologize and thank you gentlemen for dealing with my unacceptable behavior."

"Unacceptable?" Vin huffed. "Hell, Ez, somethin' like that? And you were just a kid? I don't blame ya at all. I don't think anyone else here does, either."

Chris nodded. "Seen grown men traumatized by less."

Standish ducked his head, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the discussion and the ease with which his friends were dismissing the recent happenings. A throat cleared, and he looked up to see JD nervously staring at him. He could read the question on the young man's face, and debated on whether to answer it or not. The kid wouldn't ask outright – enough elbows in the ribs from Buck had taught him not to pry – but the curiosity was still clearly evident.

"A hurricane, JD," Ezra tentatively began. "It was one of the biggest to ever hit the coast of Louisiana, and I was right in the middle of it…."

He started at the beginning and shared his secret tale of survival with his friends, not ashamed when the fear flashed across his face, not embarrassed when tears threatened to pool over his lids, and not angered by the looks of compassion they shot his way. This was the first time he had talked about the ordeal since choking it out into his mother's arms, and feeling the weight of it being shared by his brothers, he realized with a smile that the next storm wouldn't be so bad, not so bad at all.


End file.
